Esh paced across the wooden decking, lit by the moon’s brightness, still holding the letter in his hands that had summoned him there. Brief words, with no signature: the usual style, though it was true he hadn’t received one in some time.
The dockside was empty, the sailors already bedded down for the night, or otherwise occupied elsewhere. The only thing near was his shadow and the only sounds the lapping of inky waves against rotting, weed-encrusted deck boards and the far-off hum of tavern patrons singing in their drunken stupors.
Kivuli watched his master, listening to every step he took, knowing that soon someone would join them. Malkov. Kivuli’s dark form paled slightly at the thought, for Malkov was a man who commanded complete obedience, an obedience that his master, against his
